


union pool

by palisadespalisades



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 01:38:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palisadespalisades/pseuds/palisadespalisades
Summary: "I’m just being fashionable, Eds. Hey, Bev, can we get two shots of tequila?”“Oh, Richie, no,” Eddie says, but when Bev slides them over to the pair, he downs his first. He doesn’t even flinch, while Richie gags like he just drank piss. He smirks, painfully self-satisfied, and Bev realizes this is her cue to start extricating herself. “Pussy.”





	union pool

**Author's Note:**

> find me @stupidrights on twitter

Eddie walks into Union Pool, and while Bev sees all types there, he’s very clearly out of place. It’s a hipster type of fake-dive, with a taco truck out back and fairy lights strung up everywhere, and he’s wearing a pastel sweater over a button up. She doesn’t know his name until he walks up with his ID already out, and quite frankly, she appreciates it, because despite the card saying he’s her age, 26, she would’ve  _ had _ to card him. He has that classic gay baby-face thing going, and he orders a vodka-soda with a splash of cran. She almost laughs in his face, but she makes it for him anyways.

He’s been waiting for about ten minutes when she tries to start a conversation. It’s a Monday night, so it’s pretty slow, and there’s not much else for her to do. He tells her he’s waiting for a friend of his, who’s always,  _ always _ late, and the way he says it makes him sound annoyed, but she can hear the hint of some fond exasperation in it, and she just smiles. By twenty minutes in, he’s still nursing his drink, and Beverly knows that he’s from Maine, like her, and moved to NYC for university. He works as a copy editor for a publishing house, and doesn’t go out much. He’s just about to tell her about his partner, and the stray ‘she’ he drops leaves her stunned, when a mess of curly, black hair passes the threshold.

He turns like a meerkat, stretching up on his barstool to peer over the thin crowd, and waves. The curly-haired man sidles over, taking his sweet time, while Beverly says “ _ Girlfriend? _ ” with an uncharacteristic lack of self-control.

“I know, right?” The man winks at her, and it’s a beat before she recognizes him – Richie Tozier. His band plays at the bar every once in a while, and they’re pretty good; she’s even come in to see him on her off days, once or twice. They’ve chatted a couple times before, and in none of those conversations could she imagine him being friends with someone like the guy in front of her. “Oh, Beverly, hey. This is my friend, Eddie.”

“Yeah, we were talking just before you came in. Twenty minutes late, asshole,” Eddie hisses, and Richie barks out a laugh. Bev can’t help but snicker.

“I’m just being fashionable, Eds. Hey, Bev, can we get two shots of tequila?”

“Oh, Richie,  _ no _ ,” Eddie says, but when Bev slides them over to the pair, he downs his first. He doesn’t even flinch, while Richie gags like he just drank piss. He smirks, painfully self-satisfied, and Bev realizes this is her cue to start extricating herself. “Pussy.”

“Fuck you,” he spits, and orders another round.

It starts to pick up after that, so her attention is called elsewhere. When she wanders back, they ask for another round, and at some point, she wonders if she should just sell them the bottle. Not many people come in on Monday nights to get  _ fucked up _ , but it’s clear that that’s their intention. She wonders why, but it’s none of her business, so she doesn’t ask. She just watches. Beverly’s always been good at watching people, always been able to glean a lot from the little things, and there’s a lot to unpack there. The way they lean into each other and pull away in a rhythm, like waves, tells her that this is a long-practiced game they’ve been playing. They joke and argue and when she catches snippets of their conversation, it’s like listening to people speak another language.

“When Stan fuckin’—”

“God, I know. I know. Rich, I can’t  _ forget _ . Can you believe this is the man Patty wants to marry? To have  _ kids _ with?”

“It’s already in my best man speech.”

She smiles at them, and they say hi whenever she’s nearby, polite and friendly but clearly too invested in each other to think much about anyone else.

Halfway through the night, five shots in, they get a little more boisterous. She can pick up bits and pieces – bartenders can always hear more than patrons think they can, and as much as she tries not to eavesdrop, she can’t help it.

“God, Heather just texted me  _ again _ .”

“That’s, like, the sixteenth time tonight, dude.”

“I know. I  _ told _ her I was going out. She’s getting all pissy at me, telling me I’m out too late.” He taps at his phone for a moment, before looking back up to Richie and rolling his eyes. “She’s such a bitch sometimes. I don’t know why I even bother.”

Richie winces, and while Eddie doesn’t seem to notice, Beverly does. He looks a little wounded. “She’s so fuckin’ clingy. You should just dump her.”

“Yeah, yeah, tell me about it.” He sighs, slumping down. “I hate her. I really do. She’s always bitching and nagging, telling me I have to check in hourly and shit. She thinks I’m screwing Michelle from work.”

“Are you?” Richie’s voice wavers, and Beverly’s eyes go wide.

“Nah. We’re just friends. But that’s the thing, like, I’m not even allowed to have  _ friends _ . And, fuck, dude, she wants us to go to couple’s therapy. I’m like, no, we don’t need it, but real talk? I’m not wasting my fucking money or time on a relationship that’s going to end when our lease does.”

“Yeah, fuck that.”

“What about, God, what was her name, Julie? How’s that going?”

“Still haven’t texted her back.”

“Man, you gotta, or you’re going to be single  _ forever _ . Didn’t you guys hit it off? I thought you were really into her.”

“I just wasn’t feeling it.” Bev’s lips twist into a frown, and she turns around, polishing glassware. She knows the Julie Richie’s talking about. She knows Julie because she and Julie hooked up last weekend – Julie’s a lesbian, and for as long as they’ve known each other, she’s never known her to date men. This is bullshit. Richie’s lying to Eddie, and her stomach sinks, because she’s pretty sure she knows why.

They order another round, and it gets a little more heated. She can hear them arguing; it’s quiet at first, but the volume grows as they get even drunker. Eddie holds his liquor a lot better than Richie does, to Bev’s surprise, but even he’s pretty wasted by now.

“Hey, Eds.”

“God, you know I fucking hate that nickname. What?”

“Do you, like, even like Heather? ‘Cause it sounds like you don’t.”

“What?”

“She’s not  _ that _ bad. Like, she’s a little clingy, but she’s no Sonia. I think… Man, I think you just don’t like her.”

Eddie slumps down, and slams his shot. “You know what? I don’t. I really fucking don’t. Not at all. Maybe as a friend, but I don’t fucking like her, much less  _ love _ her.” And he bursts into tears. It’s midnight, and the bar’s as busy as it gets on a Monday, and Beverly’s busy because of this, but she sees Richie wrap Eddie into a hug, and sees him get pushed away. She doesn’t know what to do – she just watches.

“Don’t fucking touch me, Richie.”

“Eds, I—”

“I said  _ don’t _ .” He turns to her, and, wiping his eyes, he tries to swallow his sobs long enough to speak. She stays silent, stunned. “We’re gonna go outside for a sec. We’ll be right back, though.” Beverly just nods.

They return fifteen minutes later, stinking of weed. Eddie’s eyes are red, but Richie’s are too, and they both seem a little more chilled out, thankfully. They’re back to laughing in no time, shoulders touching as they trade inside jokes she couldn’t even begin to understand. She’s just thankful the debacle is over.

She doesn’t know what’s coming.

It’s nearing 2:30, and things are winding down. They don’t close for another hour and a half, but by now, the boys at the bar are fucking  _ plastered _ . They stopped the tequila for a while, Richie ordering PBRs for the both of them, but they’ve ramped back up, and are basically falling all over each other. She’s giggling at them, their drunken antics and ramblings more amusing than obnoxious, like guys like this usually are. Eddie follows her on IG, and promises her they’ll hang out soon, and Bev gets a really good feeling about him – they could be friends, easily, even after seeing his whole scene earlier.

Eddie starts yawning, and pushes himself back away from the bar. He powers his phone back on – Beverly didn’t know he’d turned it off, but realizes she hadn’t heard any buzzing for the past few hours. As soon as the screen lights up, she sees it fill with about 40 notifications for missed calls and unanswered texts. “Fuck, I better – I should get home.”

“You’re not driving,” Richie slurs, arm reaching out to Eddie. He takes his wrist, and Eddie shrugs him off. “And the last trains are gone.”

“No, I’m not  _ fucking _ driving, I’m not a complete piece of shit. I didn’t drive here. I gotta get a fucking cab before Heather burns our building down.”

“You live in Manhattan, that’s a fuckin trek. Just crash at my place.”

“Huh?”

“I have a couch, just sleep at mine. Do you really think it’s a good idea to go back like…  _ this? _ ” Richie motions at Eddie, and, to be fair, Eddie looks pretty fucked up. His perfectly coiffed hair is a mess, curling behind the ears with a cowlick sticking up at the back of his head. The top few buttons of his shirt are undone, and Beverly doesn’t even know where the guy’s sweater went. She remembers him spilling half a beer on it, and it disappeared after that. Honestly, he looks… fucked out.

“Fuck you. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Man, when  _ I’m _ asking  _ you _ to be reasonable, something’s gone… very,  _ very _ wrong.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck  _ you _ . You  _ know _ she’s just going to ream you out. You’re too wasted for that.”

“So fucking what?”

“Eds…”

“Don’t call me that, motherfucker.” And just like that, Eddie launches himself across the gap between them, and grabs Richie’s face, pulling it against his in a drunken, sloppy kiss. Beverly gasps audibly, and Richie pulls at Eddie’s hands, trying to drag them back down. He doesn’t pull away, though. By now, half the patrons are staring – between the fight moments ago and the present make-out session, it makes for decent entertainment. Eddie releases Richie’s face, but not for long, running his hands through his hair instead. His hands twist into fists, and they’re really fucking going for it. It’s like watching a car crash; Beverly physically cannot look away.

Eddie’s shirt comes untucked, and Richie’s hands are up there, in full public. After a beat, she clears her throat. “You fellas want me to call a Lyft?”

They come unglued, and both of them are bright red.

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” Richie says, finally. He hands her his phone, nearly dropping it as he passes it over the bar – he’s  _ schwasted _ . That’s the only word Bev can use to describe him. He orders them a car, and Eddie passes her his credit card so they can settle up. He doesn’t get it back; in fact, he leaves his whole wallet with her. They’re out the door before 3, slung over each other as they stumble out the door. Bev finds Eddie’s sweater in the photobooth, the pristine mint dirtied with beer stains and footprints. She tucks it into the back, and hopes he comes back to get it – partially because the sweater looked good on him, but also because she so desperately needs to know how the night turned out.

* * *

The next day, they opened at 4pm, and Bev’s setting up for the night when the door opens. It’s too early for customers, really – they’re  _ open _ , sure, but nobody really comes in for another hour or so, so she’s surprised. She looks over, and it’s Eddie, looking like death. Considered he drank about a bottle’s worth of tequila the night before, she’s shocked he’s even standing. He looks  _ profoundly _ hungover.

He walks up to the bar, wincing at the music, and waves to her meekly. “Hey, Beverly. I think I, uh, left my wallet here last night? And my sweater?”

“Sure did – I got ‘em for you, though, just hold on.” She disappears into the back for a moment, and when she emerges, he’s talking to one of her coworkers. She hands his things over, and he leaves with a weak smile and a wave. She doesn’t even get a chance to ask about what happened after they left, but she doesn’t know if she  _ could’ve _ , even if the opportunity presented itself.

After the door swings closed behind him, her coworker pulls her aside, and shows her a receipt. While she was gone, Eddie bought a diet coke. He left without drinking it, and left her and the other bartender a $200 tip. At the bottom of the receipt, in careful, neat handwriting, read:

“For not laughing at my misery. See you again soon, Bev. -Eddie.”

**Author's Note:**

> you don't tip $200 for not getting laid


End file.
